Chapter 86: BATHTUB

Arianna

He stood there, just at the edge of the tub, his golden eyes glinting in the candlelight, a mixture of amusement and something sharper, something possessive, in their depths. He clicked his tongue, a soft sound of mock displeasure that sent another shiver down my spine, this one less pleasant, more charged.

“Careful,” he murmured, his voice still a low, seductive rumble. “That could have been your blood filling the tub instead of just wine.”

A wave of annoyance washed over me, eclipsing the initial surprise.

“What are you doing, sneaking inside like that?” I demanded, attempting to regain some composure, pulling my hand back from beneath the bubbles, hoping he hadn’t noticed what I’d been doing.

But my protest faltered, the words dying in my throat as his gaze shifted, dropping from my face to slowly, deliberately move downwards, taking in my flushed cheeks, my rapidly rising chest, and then lower still, towards the bubbling, wine-stained water.

And then he started to move.

His fingers went to the buttons of his shirt, slow, purposeful movements that held my gaze captive. One by one, the buttons yielded, revealing glimpses of tanned skin, shadowed by the dim light.

The shirt fell open, exposing his inked chest, the defined muscles flexing subtly as he shrugged it off his shoulders and let it fall to the floor. Then came his belt, the buckle unfastening with a soft click, followed by the zipper of his trousers, a slow, deliberate rasp that echoed in the quiet bathroom.

Each movement, each piece of clothing shed, was a deliberate act, a silent stripping of barriers, both literal and metaphorical.

Naked, he stepped into the bath, the warm, wine-infused water swirling around his waist, his thighs. He moved with a fluid grace, a predator assured of his territory.

I could do nothing but stare, all annoyance, all protest, dissolving in the face of his raw, undeniable presence. He sat directly across from me, the porcelain of the big tub a surprisingly narrow divide between us.

His legs brushed against mine beneath the water, a fleeting touch that sent sparks of electricity jolting through my veins. He leaned back against the tub, the water lapping at his shoulders, his arms resting easily on the sides, radiating an effortless confidence.

My book slipped from my suddenly nerveless fingers and landed with a soft thud on the carpet beside the tub, forgotten.

I instinctively tried to retreat further into the bubbles, seeking a futile shield against his intense gaze. But there was nowhere to hide. His golden eyes, sharp and knowing, were fixed on me, and as they met mine, a blush bloomed across my cheeks, hot and undeniable.

The air in the bathroom, already thick with the scent of strawberries and wine, now crackled with a new, potent fragrance – the scent of unspoken desires, of simmering anticipation, of Vincent's overwhelming, magnetic presence. It was intoxicating, suffocating, and utterly, irrevocably captivating.

His head lolled back against the rim of the tub, his throat exposed, vulnerable for a fleeting moment before he shifted, his gaze still locked on me.

The tattooed arms and chest, which I tried desperately to ignore, only drew my attention more, every line and curve etched into my memory from countless nights spent tangled in his embrace. I couldn’t take my eyes off him, even if I wanted to, which, truthfully, I didn’t. There was a primal pull, a gravitational force that Vincent exerted over me, and resistance was futile.

“Did you enjoyed my book?” His lips tipped into a slow, knowing smile, eyes still closed, as if savouring the reaction he knew he was provoking.

And I blushed even more, the heat now radiating outwards, warming the tips of my ears and prickling my skin.

The audacity of him. The smugness.

And yet, a traitorous flutter of pleasure danced in my stomach at his words.

His book.

What do I say?

That I was touching myself while reading it?

The thought flashed through my mind, audacious and thrilling, but the words remained trapped behind my suddenly dry throat.

Even now, after countless passionate moments together, after nights that blurred the lines between pleasure and pain, after sharing secrets whispered in the dark, I still couldn’t look him in the eyes when he was like this.

His stare was too intense, too penetrating, even with his eyes closed, I could feel their phantom weight on my skin. His voice alone gave me shivers, a low rumble that vibrated through the water and settled deep within my bones.

“You know I did,” my voice was quiet, barely a whisper, and yet, in the stillness of the bathroom, it seemed to echo. His grin stretched, a flash of white teeth against his tanned skin, once he lowered his head to look at me, his golden gaze now even more intense as it raked over my flushed face, half-submerged in the strawberry-scented water.

He knew. He always knew. He saw past the carefully constructed walls I tried to build, straight into the messy, vulnerable, yearning core of me.

“Are you being shy now?” He sounded amused, a playful lilt in his voice, and I instinctively averted my gaze, focusing on a stray bubble drifting lazily on the surface of the water.

Shy? No. Intimidated? Perhaps. Overwhelmed? Definitely. He had this effect on me, a potent cocktail of adoration and apprehension.

“No,” I lied, the denial weak and unconvincing even to my own ears. “You just ruined my alone time,” I lied again, the second lie even less believable than the first.

The truth was, my alone time, as perfectly crafted as it was, felt suddenly sterile and lifeless in the face of his vibrant energy.

He was a storm that swept through my carefully ordered world, leaving chaos and exhilaration in his wake.

And tonight, I craved the storm.